Somewhere between a bicycle
and a seat at a daydream...
I had to make money
so I mortgaged
my woods, my sea, my music
Words--
left
Regaled only with rust
my 1938 Columbia
bike
(sold for a crib)
to an antique dealer
Fat-tires, red-faded fenders
Baskets saddled on wheel
for towel and lunch
Key chain dangling
jingling against jar
of cool ginger ale
Look back at the baskets-filled
afternoons at the park
I was a poet
The road
laid itself bare
For my bike
and I
scrolling through leaves
like words that fell
like hair across shoulders
that I sang to no one
the audience--
air
I know that now
I was not really…
nor ready
I once was a poet
_
This poem was based on a black and white photo of Harry Bertschmann as a young artist,
posed proudly by his magnificent work. First two lines of my poem were my immediate reaction to his painting.
https://www.nytimes.com/2018/01/05/nyregion/the-struggling-artist-at-86.html